Never Change
by Kaydance
Summary: We are made of memories. Arnold, Helga, and Miriam find their pasts, presents, and futures permanently intertwined, no matter the time or distance apart.
1. My Broken Habit

(A/N M'kay... Let's see... anything I feel I should mention... This story takes place about nine years after the series. Mhm... That's it... Enjoy!)

_And I remember the sound_

_Of your November downtown_

_And I remember the truth_

_A warm December with you_

_But I don't have to make this mistake  
_

_And I don't have to stay this way  
_

_If only I would wake_

_-- Joshua Radin, "Winter"_

* * *

_Click!_

Miriam watched the blender whirl into life. Today, her smoothie was just that—apples, bananas, and pears—and nothing more. Lamb was baking in the oven, a "just because" dinner that her family was unlikely to understand, and that she would be utterly incapable of explaining to them..

She threw a sideways glance to the clock as she poured the blender's contents into a coffee mug. The Felix Cat Clock indicated 4:00. She still had time—they wouldn't return for another two hours. Her husband was at work and her youngest daughter at play. Miriam took a sip of her smoothie and dumped what remained down the drain, setting the mug on a counter on her way to the living room.

She turned the television on and pulled a box out from the cleared space beneath it. The box was as ancient as a piece of cardboard should be permitted to be. It bulged at the sides, the dozens of videotapes it contained left to gather dust. Miriam had once tried to force her life onto tape. Her fans would one day wish to see it, once she was that famous singer-songwriter-actress everyone knew she could one day become. She sorted through the tapes until one label caught her eye: _The Important Stuff!_

Miriam ran a finger across the words and loaded the tape into the VHS.

_--Play--_

The television's image fizzled and changed to a beaming blond girl in her early teens.

"_Hello, Future!" __The image gave a peace sign and laughed_. _"To those of you who don't know, I'm Miriam Lyn Gallagher. And to my already adoring, cowering, and worshipping fans, I'm glad to see you again… Well… not see you… but.. um.. mmhm." She smiled awkwardly. "Well… Here we go! Let's see what I deemed worth remembering!"_

The scene shifted a school stairwell, where a freshman Miriam was standing, looking peeved.

_The voice was off-screen, a loud whisper. "C'mon! Do something!" _

"_Like what?" Miriam glowered._

"_You told me to film you, and that's what I'm doing! Now you do something!" The view fell to the floor for a moment before focusing on Miriam. A brown-haired boy brushed between them and the camera followed him as he walked. The offscreen voice giggled. "'Big Bob' Pataki," she said dreamily, refocusing the camera on Miriam. "How 'bout that?"_

_Miriam rolled her eyes and threw her hands over her heart. "Oh, Bob! I WANT him," she screamed, sarcasm dripping from her voice. "That UNIBROW!"_

_Miriam's face fell a moment later, as Bob's voice came from the top of the steps. "What the…"_

"_Oh good lord." Miriam gulped, her voice suddenly tiny. Both she and the videographer made a mad dash down to the first floor, laughing in gasping breaths. _

--_Fast Forward_--

_The stage was hidden by deep red curtains, the lights dim. A man in a tuxedo held a microphone to his mouth. "Welcome, to Hillwood High School's Spring Concert. Tonight, we're going to open with a very talented young lady, who will be singing her first solo—a song she wrote herself. Hold your applause 'til the end, please!"_

_The curtains flew apart, and there stood Miriam, too small in the center of an otherwise empty stage. She smiled, noticing someone, perhaps whoever held the camera, and waited for the music to begin._

_--Fast Forward--_

"_Okay, honey… Now one more twirl before your date gets here!"_

_Miriam, gussied up for homecoming, wrinkled up her nose and struck a pose for her mother. "Happy?"_

_The doorbell rang and Miriam rushed to answer it. Mrs. Gallagher's laughter could be heard as she zoomed in on the couple. "Aww… how cute! Bring him on in here!"_

_Miriam sighed and stood off to the side, letting her date walk in. "Mom, this is Bob. Bob, my mom."_

_Mrs. Gallagher's laughter subsided, voice amused. "Hey! Isn't this the kid from your video?" The camera zoomed in on Bob._

_Bob blinked._

"_No, Mom… I don't—" _

"_Yeah! You guys were on the stairs and—" Mrs. Gallagher's laughter returned._

"_Okay! We gotta go now!" Miriam grabbed Bob's arm and pulled him out the door. She probably wouldn't have another chance to escape._

_--Fast Forward--_

"_Okay, Olga, you can do it! Go hug Mommy!" Bob let go of the child's hands and the little girl walked forward. _

_Miriam set the camera on the ground and Bob picked it up in time to capture the scene of Miriam hugging her first-born. Olga was giggling, Miriam beaming with pride. _

Miriam hit the fast forward button once more, watching various scene of her life speed by. Olga's countless recitals, Helga's sixth grade graduation, family reunions, Christmases and summer barbecues—everything good and happy.

She turned the TV off and pushed herself up, returning to the kitchen to check the lamb. She turned the temperature down and headed toward the stairs, flicking out lights as she went.

Her youngest daughter's bedroom was so pink, reflecting a personality rarely shown. Miriam knew about the closet and the secrets it contained. The poems were sweet and sad, but worthy of praise…someday. That girl could make something of herself, if only she would give her talents a bit of credit. Helga was rough around the edges, but that would change eventually; Miriam was certain of this.

Miriam smiled fondly and closed the door. As Miriam checked the remainder of the upstairs rooms for lights she had left on, she began to hum. After each room was inspected, she returned downstairs.

She stood by the counter, pen in hand, leaning over a notepad, her humming louder now.

_Dear Bob_, she scribbled. But something seemed wrong with writing this letter on a sticky note. Miriam scowled and ripped the note off, wadded it up, and flicked it into the space between the counter and the refrigerator.

She started writing again. The words were not what she expected, they were cliche and horrible, but they fulfilled their purpose.

_Went out for doughnuts. Be back soon._

_--Miriam_

Sunlight flooded through sheer curtains as Miriam pulled her purse from the coat rack and stepped out into the street, a hum in her throat and a smile on her lips.

* * *

(A/N: Hope you enjoyed this first chapter! I may or may not finish it. There will only be two more chapters, if I do. Sorry if this reads a bit flat. I hardly had any time to work on it:/ Oh well! I had to write something down.This idea has been bubbling in my mind for months now! xD) 


	2. Our Point of No Return

A/N: I actually updated it! xD Hm... Not sure what I think of this thing.. Oh well! This chapter takes place during their senior year, one week or so after Miriam's disappearance. It starts on a Wednesday, the seniors' last day is Thursday, and (obviously) Sunday is graduation. Whee! I had so much writer's block with this! Some 'days' are extremely short, but you'll understand why... I hope. Also, Arnold is the main focus of this chapter... because... he just is! xD That means other characters' emotions and actions don't get an explanation... or much of one! Anyway, I don't own Hey Arnold, any lyrics in this, or any stories to which allusions are made! Enjoy!

_You try to be kind of optimistic_

_But your heart gets cold_

_You can't take your thoughts away from the one you miss_

_You shouldn't let yourself sink deeper_

_In distress_

_-- Isabelle Antena, "Say I Believe In It"_

* * *

Hillwood High's cafeteria hummed and buzzed that afternoon; voices blurred into an incoherent white noise. Yet, somehow, Rhonda's words broke through Arnold's fuzzy, dreaming mind. 

"_Really_! It's beyond pathetic, girls." She was standing behind him, explaining something to her clique. "What sort of parent would up and leave like that?"

Arnold slumped in his seat and stared down at his Styrofoam tray, suddenly wishing he hadn't finished the pizza.

"Less than two weeks before her own kid's graduation, too," she continued. "I can hardly _believe_ anyone would do that. I mean, who wouldn't stick it out a couple extra weeks." The loose semi-circle of Prada-toting girls murmured their agreement. Rhonda gestured for the small group to move on.

Arnold sat straight again, sighing in relief. They weren't talking about him; his pride was safe this time around.

At the sound, Rhonda half-turned, throwing a brief glance over her shoulder as she led the others out into the commons. Anyone could guess what the conversation would turn to—Arnold was the perfect tie-in to the subject. Thankfully for Arnold, he wouldn't have to hear their hushed pity. But as he began to drift back into his daydream, a realization struck some deep part of his heart with painful accuracy.

_Helga_. She sat at the table behind his, within perfect earshot of the past conversation. That feeling… It didn't go away, didn't fade into something acceptable, and now it belonged to Helga. And Arnold knew he had to do something to fix this, to be… well… Arnold.

"I'm going to do it!" he blurted out, pointing in Helga's direction.

Sid, Harold, and Gerald broke their own conversation to peer across the table at Arnold.

"Do _what_? Do _Helga_?" Sid said with a snicker.

Harold instantly broke into that obnoxious laughter, something he had never been able to outgrow. "Oooo! Arnold's gonna _dooo_ Helga!" That laughter started up again.

Even Gerald looked as though he was fighting back a laughing fit.

"No, guys," Arnold sighed. "She needs someone to help her with this and…" He rolled his eyes and pushed himself out of the chair, walking the few steps to the table behind him.

Helga was sitting with her usual crowd—Phoebe, Brainy, and two girls whom Arnold didn't know. Brainy had been the least welcome member of the group. Helga had fought against his sitting there, insulting him every step of the way. But apparently, the fight hadn't been worth it in the end. So, Brainy remained, the ever-faithful annoyance.

"Helga?" Arnold caught Helga's gaze the moment she looked up. She still wore pink, but the pigtails had been replaced with a ponytail. The familiar old bow was tied around her purse's shoulder-strap. "Okay… I know you don't want to talk about this but…" He paused. Everyone seated around the table fell silent, all simultaneously looking up at him.

Helga's eyes narrowed as she made a slicing motion with one hand, as though trying to cut through that sudden quiet. "Hold it! What were you talking about with those guys?" She pointed in Sid's direction.

"…I have to help you with this. I know what you're going through and…" Arnold hadn't caught Helga's question. His eyes had shifted to the ceiling. He needed something to concentrate on… something that wasn't glaring daggers at him. "…we're going to find her."

"Y-yuh… wha—?" Helga stammered the non-words out and glanced across her silent row of friends, searching for help in their confused expressions. She squeezed the pink fabric of her old bow, eyes rapidly flicking between faces. She nodded slowly, uncertainly.

Arnold clapped his hands together with enthusiasm. The promise should have felt forced and fake, but it didn't. Despite how absurd the proposition should have felt, he had pulled this sort of thing off before, and he could do it again. "We'll talk after school. I'll come by your house, okay?"

He waited for a response, but got none. "I'll be there around 3:00…." Still nothing, save for five sets of wide eyes locked on him.

As Arnold returned to his seat, he could hear a flurry of lightning-fast, whispery words from behind him, accompanied by the occasional wheeze.

Gerald shook his head when Arnold returned to the table. "Arnold, man. Have you got any idea what you just got yourself into?"

* * *

"We are all on puppet strings—we can not deviate from the universe's plan. There is no way that I could have not said what I just said. Whatever will be will be." Mrs. Holdsworth smacked her keys against the desk of a weary-eyed sophomore. "_That_ is what fatalism tells us." 

Phoebe's hand shot up. "But that makes no sense. There are countless possibilities for what you could have said. We have free will."

A brilliant smile formed on Mrs. Holdsworth's lips. "Yet, according to the theory, there aren't. The possibilities are there, but they would never have been realized."

Suddenly, the small woman began to sing. "_Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see. Que sera, sera!"_

Phoebe looked as though she wished to continue the argument, but thought better of it. She couldn't change the theory, after all.

Phoebe turned to Arnold then. "_That's the most ridiculous theory. How could anyone have ever believed it?_" she asked under her breath. "_I mean the mere thought that every single thing we do is controlled… it makes no sense…" _

Arnold caught Phoebe's eyes, which seemed to hold a different question entirely. _How could you get her hopes up like that? How could you drag her through this?_ But Phoebe would never ask, or even think, such a thing. She would support the task at hand. Why on earth shouldn't she?

Arnold simply shrugged a shoulder. He couldn't focus on upcoming exams, fatalism, or strange looks behind Phoebe's glasses.

Phoebe continued on, counting something or other off on her hands.

Mrs. Holdsworth appeared beside Phoebe's desk and clapped her hands forcefully. "_Finals_ are tomorrow. Seniors, I know you're all anxious to finish up here, and maybe your brains have already shut down. I don't know. But let's _try_ to give this thing a fraction of our all, shall we?" She gestured to Arnold. "Arnold?"

"Hm?" Arnold blinked, momentarily confused. "Oh!" His eyes shifted to the clock and he waited, watching the second hand. "Five… four… three…" Once upon a time, Arnold watched the clock with rapt attention. So, it had become a class tradition for him to count down the bell. "…two… one…"

_Brrrriiing!_

The students of Mrs.'s Holdsworth's eighth period human behavior class shot to their feet and flooded through the door. Arnold was the first to escape the room; he didn't want Phoebe to catch up with him. He didn't want to hear anything she had to say.

* * *

The crowd in the locker bay dissipated quickly, until only Arnold was left, standing stone-still by his open locker. _Calc. book? Check… HB notes? Yup… Ready to move yet? Not a chance._ Arnold groaned and slammed his locker shut, gaze falling to the books he carried. "Okay…" And he moved forward, first to the school's doors, then to his car. There were places to go, things to see, and lives to fix. He couldn't stand around forever. 

His car was old—it was his grandfather's Packard. Phil had been confined to a wheelchair and banned from the wheel, so the car went to Arnold, with all the responsibilities that it brought—late night trips to the pharmacy to fill his grandparents' prescriptions, grocery shopping for the boarders' meals, and toting around those who were either without a car or without a license. Most people he knew fit this criterion. So, whenever the subway wasn't convenient, the residents of the Sunset Arms relied on him.

Arnold stared at the addresses as he drove down Raiders Road; he couldn't remember which house was hers… It seemed strange, that he could remember those four digits but not the structure of the building. Finally, he saw the numbers his mind had been repeating for the past five minutes. He pulled into the driveway and hurried out of his car.

They were sitting on the porch, Helga and Brainy, staring straight ahead as Arnold approached. Neither was speaking, but rather waiting. The moment Arnold entered their vision, Helga turned and whispered something to Brainy, who in turn wrapped an arm around Helga's shoulders and proceeded to walk off, glancing over his shoulder only once.

As soon as Brainy was out of earshot, Helga got to her feet and waved Arnold over. "So…" She paused for a long moment. "Sure 'bout this? Here there be dirty _dyshes_." She smiled briefly and pulled the door open.

The lights had been left off and the house was painfully silent, painfully empty. But despite the lack of… something… the air had a certain weight, a certain _gravity_. Worst of all, for Arnold, that feeling held a bitter familiarity. "So… where's your dad?" he asked, hoping to rid the room of its heavy silence.

"Sleeping. Trust me; you don't want him to wake up right now…" She curled her fingers into her palms. "Anyway… I don't know what you can do here… I mean, Bob's had people all through the house, sifting through her stuff."

Was she regretting her acceptance of his help already? He had barely just gotten through the door. Arnold couldn't help but to frown.

Helga continued. "…They took the home movies she was watching and…"

"Home movies?" Arnold's expression brightened as he cut off her sentence. "What of?"

"Oh, criminey, Arnoldo, home movie stuff—picnics and that sort of thing."

"Any of her?"

"Yeah… They were _her_ videos. She was singing, talking… Where am I going with this?"

Arnold began pacing around the kitchen. Helga certainly hadn't been lying about the dirty dishes; the room looked as though it had been left untouched since Miriam's disappearance. "Your mom could sing?" He paused by the counter and looked back at Helga.

Helga tensed, but quickly moved to the table and plopped down, shuffling letters—replies from colleges by the looks of it—into one hand. "Maybe when she's sober. I never heard her make anything but a fool of herself." Her voice fell flat; there was not a trace of her typical biting tone.

A yellow pad of paper caught Arnold's attention and the brief message stopped his heart, if only for an instant. "They didn't take this? The investigators, I mean…"

"Pictures. They took pictures." Behind Arnold, Helga was fingering through the college replies.

"Oh…" Arnold picked of the notepad and ran a finger along the edges. The fringe of a missing slip of paper sliced into the skin under his fingernail. "Mn!" With no explanation, he began circling the kitchen again, this time stopping by the sink. He checked the trashcan underneath—empty, save for an apple core. With Helga's eyes following his every step, Arnold returned to the counter and dropped to the floor, feeling along the dirty linoleum. When he reached the small space between the counter and the refrigerator, he paused, peering into the dark. Yellow.

"Hey, Footballhead… This whole thing is fascinating and all, but maybe you should get off the floor?" Her normal condescending tone was returning, if only a little.

As Helga was speaking, Arnold was reaching for the wadded up ball of paper. One finger brushed the paper, then flicked it into the open. "Yes!"

Helga met him with a raised eyebrow. "Uh-huh… I didn't exactly ask for a floor show here."

Arnold sat cross-legged on the floor and carefully unwadded the note. He had hoped for a clue, for some guiding ray of hope, but instead got two static words: '_Dear Bob,_'. And that was it. He set the note on the floor and looked up at Helga.

Helga dropped the letters robotically and slid out of her chair, kneeling by the wrinkled bit of paper. She picked it up by one corner, as if fearing it would turn to ashes in her hand. After she had scanned the one line of messy cursive, her eyes met Arnold's, wide and expectant. "That's it?" Her voice shook on the first word.

"That's it."

* * *

"Where've you been, Shortman?" Phil beamed as his grandson collapsed on the couch. 

"I've been at Helga's, grandpa…"

"Your little friend who always wears pink? Going through some hard times, i'n't she?" He wheeled forward, so as to get a better look at his grandson. "Seems like somethin' you could help her with."

"I'm trying. Honestly. I'll be talking with her neighbors tomorrow." A pause. "But she's handling this pretty well… I mean, considering… everything."

Phil chucked softly. "Always takin' the weight of the world on those shoulders of yours, eh, Shortman?" A strange stamping sound came from the kitchen. Phil sighed. "Would you mind helping your grandma with dinner tonight?"

Arnold managed to keep himself from groaning; he smiled instead. "Of course, grandpa." Gertrude, even at ninety-something, still insisted on making her special dinners, even if it was only one night a week.

He walked into the kitchen where his grandmother was dancing in a large metal tub filled with chick peas and various spices.

"Marhaba, Shafiq." Her voice had grown raspier over the years, but her grin was as wide and youthful as ever.

"Grandma… What are you doing?"

"Preparing to feed the masses! Come, come! Help prepare the feast!" She jumped out of the tub and gestured to it. "Hummus, baba, tabouli; so much to-do-li!"

Arnold stared blankly at his grandmother, unable to grasp what exactly she was asking him to do. But, it only took a moment for the realization to click. He kicked off his shoes, pulled his socks off, and stepped into the tub. No meal was too absurd at the Sunset Arms boarding house and foot-falafels were far from the strangest meal he'd ever helped to prepare. He began walking in place, wincing slightly at the feeling of smashed chick peas between his toes.

"Where's your enthusiasm, Shafiq?" Gertrude waved her arms in the air. "Where's the razzle? Mark time! Mark up!"

With a fond smile, Arnold switched into marching mode.

* * *

_I know you… I've dreamed of you every night. You live in my memories… even if I made those memories myself. I know you… I keep your picture in a drawer by my bed… _

_And I knew that I'd find you. _

* * *

"Arnold! _Arnold!_" 

Arnold finally stopped. He had been walking through the deserted halls for the past twenty minutes, taking one flight of stairs, then the other, until the fluorescent lights and rows of creamy lockers of each floor became indistinguishable. Even Sid's voice had disappeared into the hum of the air conditioning for a moment.

"What are you still doing here?" Sid ran up to Arnold and tagged him on the shoulder.

"I…" _What? I was walking? I didn't want to leave yet? I forgot that the bell rang? What? _"…wait… What are _you_ still doing here?"

"Me? Oh… Mr. McCollens found my little study sheet, trashed my test, and yeah…" Sid laughed. "It's just one exam, right?"

Arnold rolled his eyes. "Right, Sid."

"You okay there, Arnold? Y'seem kinda outta it…" Genuine concern reflected on the boy's face.

"Yeah… Guess I just didn't get much sleep last night. Exams were giving me nightmares." Arnold stared forward, realizing that they were walking towards the doors.

"Heh. Catch ya Sunday, Arnold!" Sid flashed a quick smile and pushed through the doors.

After Sid left, Arnold stood at the door, looking through the glass into the parking lot. He was doing the same thing as the day before—he was stalling. But what reason was there to stall? What was he trying to avoid? Even though…

(_…their eyes, they were so different…)_

…this whole ordeal would be difficult, he had accomplished far more impossible feats before, and as a child no less! He only had to…

(_…let go, just let it go. Because those eyes, I don't recognize them…)_

…remain diligent and keep focused on what must be done.

* * *

_Knock! Knock!_

The door swung open with a force Arnold had not been expecting. The woman had her hair up in rollers. "What d'you want?"

"I was just wondering… what you noticed last week at the Pataki house." Arnold pointed across the street. "Anything?"

The woman groaned and bit down on her lower lip. "Kid… Why're you getting' messed up in that? From what I've heard, the family's already spending gobs trying t'get 'er found."

Something about the woman's comment didn't quite click with Arnold, but he didn't bother working out just what the problem was. His eyes turned pleading, voice suddenly too soft. "Anything at all. I just need to do this."

She tried to smile, but the expression didn't ring true on her face. "You're one of those good guys, huh?" She stared absently past Arnold, across the street. "That woman never seemed too happy ovuh there. There was a car that day—nice-lookin' thing. I didn't think much of it." She tugged at one of the rollers in her hair. "That help, kid?"

Arnold turned to face the Pataki house. Where was his guiding light? "Yeah… What direction did they go?"

"Into town."

Into town… Follow the yellow-brick road into the vast unknown. Down that road, there was a subway station, a train station, and if you went far enough there was even an airport. Or there was always the possibility that they just drove—put the pedal to the metal and never looked back. "Thanks…"

Maybe it was the dejected quality of Arnold's voice that made the woman feel she needed to add something. "I'm glad someone's doing something for them. That family… they really needed someone like you right now."

The rest of Arnold's trek around the neighborhood yielded very few results. There were several people who wouldn't talk to him, and those who did hadn't seen much. What was there to see? A thin blond woman stepped out of her home one sunny spring afternoon and got into a waiting car.

However, some people had noticed vague changes in Miriam's behavior in the weeks leading up to her disappearance—she had begun spending more time outside, she took more walks, she smiled and waved to the neighbors. There shouldn't have been anything abnormal about those behaviors, except Miriam Lynn Pataki didn't do those things—she stayed hidden in the house, drinking smoothies five in the morning while she considered preparing dinner.

Arnold felt he should go talk to Helga, but what could he tell her that would mean something? There was nothing concrete to what he'd learned—his words would not bring hope. So, what point would there be to comforting the girl with empty syllables? Words wouldn't change anything. Words would not bring Miriam back. Words couldn't fix this.

Only he could.

* * *

The boarding house answering machine blinked over and over. Arnold hovered over the blinking light for a moment, then hit the play button. 

Nadine's voice rang through the otherwise silent hall. "_Arnold? Where were you? Is everything alright? Call me back. Please… This isn't like you! You haven't—"_

Arnold clicked the message off…

And went upstairs…

And went to bed…

And dreamt…

Again…

* * *

_I heard you, before I knew who you were. You were so quiet there, but twig snapped, or a rock fell. I heard it. And there you were. Both of you. Together. Watching me. But those eyes… _

_I'll never forget… I don't want to remember. _

* * *

Saturday never happened, or at the very least, it shouldn't have. 

The alarm clock didn't wake him up; it was broken on the floor once he finally noticed it. He swept the pieces into a corner to be picked up later. It was early afternoon—late for Arnold, who was normally one of those early birds—one of those early birds who remembered things.

Mr. Hyunn filled the prescriptions of two elderly folks that morning.

And everything was okay. Everything was alright. Nothing major happened.

But that was Arnold's job, and Arnold didn't forget those things. Ever.

It rained all that afternoon, but Arnold drove down to the Investigations Office, and asked for whoever was in charge of the Pataki case. 'All cases are confidential' was the curt reply of a woman behind a desk. Begging, pleading, insisting; they all fell on deaf ears. After all, everything possible was being done. The woman reassured him of this, or at least one could assume that she believed she did.

Getting no help from anyone in the building, Arnold drove to the airport, then up to the Pataki home, then back again. And he spoke to everyone in between. Ticket-sellers, bums on the street, people under brightly colored umbrellas. He gathered information, and wrote it down, and hoped.

And the day went by fast, maybe because he got a late start, maybe because his thoughts were so slow, or maybe because it was raining. But, it seemed too quickly that he was home with a notebook full of scribbles and a cardboard box filled with song lyrics, photos, that sort of thing. He had driven past the Pataki home one last time, and found that box there on the porch, with a note from Helga, telling him to take it.

The moment he pushed into the family room, Arnold was greeted by Gerald and Phoebe. They met him with harsh stares and harsh words.

He wasn't helping things; he was forgetting, neglecting, ruining, and failing. There were so many words and they rushing past too quickly to make sense.

And then, Arnold was yelling. This _would_ work out. He _could_ do this. Things would fall back into place. And it would be okay. And some people should learn to mind their own damn business.

They left after that, Gerald and Phoebe, together. The sky had grown dark by that time. And the boarding house floor was littered with papers and photos—precious, irreplaceable things.

But, Saturday never should have happened. And as Arnold lay awake, he cried. He didn't want to let himself sleep, but eventually he would have to. He couldn't keep his eyes open. So, he cried. For himself. By himself. Until he fell asleep. But, Saturday couldn't have happened, because Arnold was never one to cry.

* * *

_I called out to you, regardless of everything, I screamed your names. You were so close. And things would work out in the end. So, I called out for you. And you ran. And I ran. And the forest became so thick. And I couldn't see the sun. _

_And then, I couldn't see you._

* * *

Graduation slipped by without a hitch. Parents brought air horns and confetti to let off when their child's name was called. Younger students screamed and cheered for their friends. 

And after it was all over, twelve graduates formed two rows in the parking lot, and began to walk.

The sun was strangely bright that chilly afternoon. Light sliced through the buildings and highlighted the road a perfect, shadowless grey.

The group reminisced as they marched down the street. And any hiatus in speech was filled with laughter.

Helga was between Phoebe and Brainy, head low, eyes apologetic. Her occasional whispers would be inaudible to anyone more than a foot from her.

Arnold walked uncomfortably between Gerald and Nadine, all three of whom refused to speak with one another.

Nadine ripped a dragonfly necklace from her neck and let it drop.

And something new glittered on Rhonda's left ring finger.

Eugene reached his home first, and waved. He wouldn't lose touch with any of them again.

The promise was repeated again and again until only Arnold and Helga remained, standing outside Helga's house.

"Helga…." He watched the ground intently.

"Arnold, it's okay, really."

Arnold's eyes suddenly snapped up. "No! I didn't mean I was giving up! No!"

"Seriously, Footballhead," she chuckled softly, "you tried, right? It's okay."

"It's not! I talked to your neighbors and I might wear the investigators down eventually…"

"Arnold, stop…"

"And the lady across the street said she saw your mom get in a car—"

"Please…" Her hands were gathered into fists, nails biting into her palms.

"And some people by the train station said they saw a blond woman in lavender."

"Just… stop…"

But he wouldn't stop. No. Arnold's hope would not be defeated. "But a man at the airport thought he saw her too… And the train station and the airport are about thirty miles away. I'll have to—"

"_ARNOLD!_"

And finally, Arnold shut his mouth.

"Come on, _Arnold_, you're vying for a miracle here! What are you even doing, running around town, harassing people? Do you actually think you're going to fix this? I'm _**not**_ the maiden in distress. So… stop… playing… the… savior…" Her last words were hissed out through clenched teeth. With that, she spun around and rushed up the stairs, grabbing for the doorknob.

Arnold couldn't respond; he couldn't even move. It was if he and Helga were on completely different wavelengths.

But Helga wasn't moving either. Her hand was trembling terribly on the doorknob. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice a pathetic step above a whisper.

Suddenly, Arnold climbed the stairs and grabbed the girl's shoulders, whirling her around to face him. "We can't give up on this."

His grip tightened on her shoulders. "Don't you believe in miracles, Helga?" Arnold knew that the next words he said had to mean something to Helga. And giving their past together, there was one question that could. "Don't you believe in me?"

When that question hit the air, Helga's eyes abruptly became too round, too blue, too glassy. "I want to believe." Her voice was strangely level, forcedly so.

Arnold let go of her, taking a step back. He wouldn't be able to explain why he had backed away from Helga, but the simple fact was that he did. And he couldn't change that.

Helga disappeared into the dimly lit house. And he couldn't change that either. After all, regardless of all Arnold's caring, hope, and empathy, he couldn't even see that Helga had been holding back tears.

* * *

A/N: Hm. Yup. Any last thoughts from me? Well... "Here there by dirty dyshes" is my silly attempt at an allusion and Helga's silly attempt at humor. The last chapter will focus mainly on Helga, with check-ins on Arnold and the Patakis. One more chapter! Can I do it?! XD 


	3. Mistakes of My Youth

A/N: Last chapter, people! It's mainly Helga's chapter, but it starts with Arnold. Here are a few important things that need mentioning! This story takes place **ten years** after the last, on Christmas Eve. So, the PS 118 gang would be 28, Miriam and Bob would be in their late 50s – early 60s(ish), so on and so forth. Also, Dorothy is Hega, Helga is Dorothy. I'm not trying to confuse you, but I switch between the names. You'll see why. Also, I don't really go into what Helga was doing for those years… but you can infer what you want from what I do say…I think that's it… Happy holidays, and thanks to everyone who read and reviewed this! Much love!

_This city desert makes you feel so cold.  
It's got so many people but it's got no soul  
And it's taking you so long  
To find out you were wrong  
When you thought it had everything_

_You used to think that it was so easy  
You used to say that it was so easy  
But you're tryin'  
You're tryin' now  
Another year and then you'll be happy  
Just one more year and then you'll be happy  
But you're cryin'  
You're cryin' now_

-- Gerry Rafferty, "_Baker Street_"

* * *

"I've had the dreams all my life. They change, evolve, grow, but the idea is always the same. But those dreams, they were never so bad as after the search for them shifted from the city streets to the outlying woods… I'm standing at the edge of a park. It's dark, but not so dark that I can't see anything. That would be twilight, right? Anyway, there's patch of goldish light on the other side of the woods, from a single streetlight. It turned a few trees and a distant street that same gold color. It's something… alluring. Yes, that's a good word for it. Alluring. I don't want to go into those woods. I don't want to, but I do. There's no going back from there, I guess. I had reached my point of no return. And besides, have you ever seen woods at twilight? They're sort of blurry, and dark, and they draw you in, no matter how aware of the creepy-crawlies you are. And I don't just walk, I _run_, through tree trunks that are so much thicker than I'd ever seen in that neck of the woods. There are footsteps, running with mine, behind me or in front of me; I can't tell, but I keep running. Then, something changes, the woods become denser, more _primordial;_ the air there is thicker, heavier. And I _know_ why it is that I'm running. I know what I'll see if I stop and look up, if I hear a rock fall or a twig snap. But when I hear it, I stop anyway, and look up… and there they are, my parents, sitting on a low tree branch, staring at me with their heads tilted to some odd angle. But their eyes… they're so wild; they're not human eyes; I can't tell what they're thinking. I move towards them anyway. They're my parents! And they _run!_ So, I run too, again… But I'm not in that forest anymore. I'm standing outside Helga's house and the door is open, and it smells like that forest in there. And there's a feeling that surrounds the place. I don't like it. It's no better than where I just came from. But just like with the woods, I go in anyway, expecting them all to be there—Helga, her mother… my parents… but it's empty. All the furniture is there and there are dirty dishes in the sink, but it's empty all the same." 

Arnold finally opened his eyes. He hadn't expected to talk for so long; he hadn't expected to tell so much of his dream, but he had, and it was out. The man with the clipboard, Dr. Hollins, sat silently, and during that silence, Arnold took a moment to inspect the walls. They were an uninteresting off-white, very clean, but there wasn't a lot there—just a painting of a rocking chair and a framed degree. He sat there, watching the walls for as long as he could, until the quiet became just too awkward. "She just left, you know? She emptied her bank account and walked out. She had under a thousand dollars, Doctor. That's not enough to live on… it's just enough to leave. Miriam… we knew something about her. People saw her leave. But Helga? Nothing… And I know I can't blame myself for these things, but… but I feel like a messed up somehow."

"Where are you spending the holidays?" Dr. Hollins smiled over to Arnold.

Arnold, in turn, blinked and stared suspiciously at the back of the clipboard. He knew what that question meant, that the holidays were an unhappy time for so many. "I spend Christmas with the Patakis. They spend New Years with me." It had been that way since he was twenty.

"Good, good. And how are the Pataki cases going?" It was an obvious attempt to change the subject.

"I'd rather not discuss the status of my cases." Arnold smiled, only briefly.

* * *

Dorothy Liddell sat with her ankles crossed, swirling a finger in a cup of cold coffee. It was still relatively early, in that it was before noon, and Dorothy had been sitting in that spot, contemplating what she should make for Christmas Eve dinner. She had plenty of time to consider such things—as small as the apartment was, being alone in it was never a comfortable thing. Rob was at work; he never got Christmas Eve off, and Alice was at a play date, pre-writing her Thank You letter to Santa. And Dorothy was alone in a dank apartment, stuck with thoughts that were not quite season-appropriate. 

She had had dreams at one time—dreams where she would travel the world with her soulmate… and they would have their own brand of perfume; it would be something with lilacs, or roses, or maybe Easter lilies. She would publish her poems; she would be famous. Not that she didn't try. Dorothy had a few children's books written, but no publisher would touch them. The books just didn't have that little something that makes a story worthwhile to a child. Maybe it was because Dorothy Liddell didn't have a childhood—she had only existed for ten years.

But what held her attention now was her horoscope calendar that she kept over the counter. She got to her feet and made her way to the counter, peeling off the previous day's sheet. It was only the last sentence that made her gasp, then laugh. '_Today, nostalgia brings you home_.'

Of course it would. After all, what did she owe to her family? What did she owe Rob, her husband, who worked as a janitor just to make ends meet—Rob, with his dreams of being a teacher; Rob, who had saved her once upon a time. Or lil' four-year-old Alice? What did she owe to either one? Hillwood was only a couple hours away by subway. Sure, a train would have that romantic feel, but they cost a good bit more, and the subway was simpler. Pay once and ride as long as you want. It was how she had gotten to Trinway after all.

But the idea was ridiculous, so ridiculous that she dialed a number and yelled at a receptionist for five minutes to find her husband and tell him that he'd need to pick Alice up from the Vizzones. She would be home late. And don't worry.

Dorothy laughed and muttered to herself and she changed into something more formal—a frilly white blouse, black pants, and red flats. She grabbed a black purse from the back of the closet; a satiny pink bow was tied around the shoulder strap. The bow was nothing old, nothing precious, but it brought back memories all the same. Her reflection smiled brightly, perhaps a tad insanely, from the bedroom mirror, before she turned and marched assuredly through the apartment and out the door.

When you've reached the end of the world, there's only one place to go. Home.

* * *

It was Timberly Johansson's fault, to tell the truth; the miracle was entirely the fault of that amazing girl, Arnold's amazing fiancée. She had acquired a taste for folksy-sounding music, and while Arnold was looking up lyrics to some of her preferred songs, he had stumbled across something familiar—words that were folded up in a cardboard box. Words that belonged to Miriam Lynn Gallagher. 

Lydia Constance Adams was a singer-songwriter with a well-known enough name around followers of the folk genre. She was the ex-wife of a wealthy business owner or something along those lines. He had more than helped get her career off the ground, and after the divorce, she collected a nice sum of cash.

Lydia was smiling in every picture Arnold could find of her; her face was fuller and her hair a shade darker, but it was undeniable—this was Miriam. Arnold's agents had been following her for the better part of the year. It shouldn't make sense that someone could disappear so easily into the spotlight, but Miriam had managed. Perhaps that was the best place for her to hide—the one place she'd always wanted to be. Regardless, Arnold was meeting her at the airport that evening.

* * *

"_Arnold… Honestly… You're such a goody-goody." She punched him softly on the shoulder and they took off together, running and laughing. It was too cold to be running outside without coats, but what do children care? They had their whole lives to worry about those things. _

_And the bitter winter air stung their faces._

Dorothy jerked awake and wiped a spot of drool from her chin.

The subway car was suspiciously empty. Maybe the rest of the world was already home for Christmas Eve. Maybe nobody wanted to spend the holiday in the musty underground. Maybe the thought had absolutely no importance.

How long had it been? She had already switched trains twice and couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour. She should have entered Hillwood by this time. Her internal clock must have been set perfectly because the train reached its stop just then.

It was strange, but as Dorothy climbed the steps which led to the surface, she could feel part of herself falling back into place, as though she had never left. As though she were still Helga, and everything that had happened to Dorothy was merely a fever dream. _There never was a Dorothy. I made her up_. And that was true, on some level.

However, whether or not there had ever been a Dorothy, there was definitely a young girl of about twelve sitting at the top of the steps, kicking absent-mindedly at loose pebbles. She was wearing a knee-length button-down jacket and a multi-colored beanie.

"Hello?" Helga sat down next to the girl. She was in no hurry, and a subway was no place for a girl to be alone… even if it was in as safe a place as Hillwood.

The girl looked up, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do _you_ want, lady?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just… what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for a scarecrow to get off the subway." The girl stood up, glowering down the steps where a train was shooting past into the dark. "Musta messed up."

Helga blinked. "What?" Obviously, the child was being sarcastic, but something didn't mesh just right.

"I said I musta missed it."

"Oh." Following the girl's lead, Helga stood up. "Well, where do you live? Do you need help getting there?"

"I dunno. I mean I _know_ but I don't feel like going home just yet. I gotta meet someone later."

Helga turned to face the open space. It didn't look like Christmas Eve one bit. The air was chilled, but the fluffy white snow that signaled Christmas was nowhere to be found. "The scarecrow?" She scoffed, glancing off to one side.

"No. Different person."

"Well, you can come along with me. No one's expecting me until later." Letting a kid tag along on such a personal trip was not something that Helga G. Pataki would normally do, but something about wandering the streets of her childhood alone seemed too, well, lonely.

* * *

They were in the orange-scented living room, each sitting stone still. What remained of the Pataki family had gathered together—Bob, Olga, her husband, and their two teenage sons. 

"What time is it?" Olga Watts waited for an answer. But there were no clocks in the living room. And no one had a watch. And no one wanted to go check anyway.

* * *

"You used to hang out at Slausens when you were _my_ age? C'mon! This place can't be that old!" 

Helga laughed, taking a seat on the rotating stool. "Everything here is that old! I swear, this place hasn't changed a bit!" She slammed a fist down on the bar. "Hey! Service here?"

A man in a pinstriped uniform trudged out from the back room. "Calm your horses!"

"I'll take a Deluxe Cocoa Dream-Team, extra whipped cream, and don't skip on the sprinkles!" She paused. "Oh, and my little friend here will have…."

"Same thing," she replied.

"Yeah. She'll take the same."

The man rolled his eyes. "Whatever. As long you're paying."

Helga straightened up, just slightly. "Yeesh. They were never this rude here when I was a kid." She gave a one shouldered shrug and turned to the girl. "Hey, you never told me your name, y'know?"

"You never told me yours." The girl glanced down as the cocoas were placed onto the bar.

"Fair enough." Helga wouldn't be able to answer that question anyway.

Suddenly, Helga felt a tug at the end of her shirt. A small boy in a wool Rudolph sweater was staring up at her. _Not another one_, her mind hissed, though she had to admit that the children did lighten this whole experience. There was a good chance that she would have just turned around and returned to Trinway had it not been for that girl.

"_Hel-_hello!" The voice behind her held a hint of surprise on the first deep note.

Helga felt her fist clench before she even bothered to turn around.

He was overly pale with glasses and a sweater that matched the boy's. "My son has a thing for blondes." He chuckled lightly and heaved the boy up onto one shoulder.

"Hmt! Cute, but I'd rather not get picked up in an ice cream parlor.. Ta!" Helga untensed and twirled a spoon into the gob of whipped cream, smiling in a manner that was none too pleasant.

"Ya coulda been nicer to him," said the girl flatly once the small family was out of earshot. She was still staring at the cocoa.

"Naah. He looks like he's used to it any—." Her voice dipped and disappeared. "Aren't you going to drink that? She raised her own mug to her mouth, all too aware that the bright red lipstick she'd applied would disappear.

"Too many sprinkles," huffed the girl.

Helga waved a hand dismissively and reached into her purse, fishing out the proper sum of money. "No tip," she whispered with a sly smile.

As they neared the exit, the paper rack caught Helga's eye. A tabloid showed an image of a dark-haired woman, looking overly shocked. _Trophy Wife Cheating With THIS?!_ A smaller photo portrayed a grinning man with a terribly out-of-style haircut. Below the tabloid was a paper with a small side-story _Please Come Home for the Holidays._ She grabbed one of each.

* * *

_Knock! Knock!_

The Pataki family exchanged uneasy looks. They all got to their feet at once, forming an arc around the front door.

_Knock-knock-knock!_

Bob stepped forward, pulled the door open, and returned to his place.

Arnold entered first, glancing reassuringly behind him. Miriam was squeezing his wrist, staying back like some shy child. "It's alright," he whispered calmly.

But the feeling in the room once she entered wasn't alright. No one moved. No one breathed. The laws of time overlooked 3256 Raider's Road for that instant.

"Mummy!" Olga's tearful squeal brought the room back into reality. The woman whimpered and threw her arms around her mother, sobbing into Miriam's coat.

* * *

"I went to school here. You wouldn't believe some of the things that happened behind those walls. I almost don't believe it, sometimes. Floods, infestations, and insanity to boot!" She elbowed the girl, laughing cheerfully. 

The girl was staring out at the old school building, fingers laced behind her head. "Your stories aren't that interesting, ma'am."

"_Ma'am_? How old do you think I am?"

When the girl didn't respond, Helga followed her gaze to the building. Hillwood really hadn't changed. From what she had seen, the old shops were still in business, the one tree still grew, a glittering artificial pine tree stood like a ziggurat in the court square, and children still romped around town unsupervised.

But something made both Helga and the girl stand up a tad straighter. Despite the fact that it was Christmas break, and despite the fact that the school should have been locked, and despite the fact that it was 5 o'clock in the afternoon, a bell rang and children flooded through the double doors.

And what Helga wished she hadn't realized, was that she _knew_ these children. All of them.

And she knew this moment. A boy in a little blue hat ran over, stopping next to the girl. But… she looked different. The knee-length jacket was gone, as was the beanie. She wore pink and kept her hair in pigtails. "School-ditcher," joked the boy with a wink.

"Arnold… Honestly… You're such a goody-goody," teased the girl. She leaned toward him, lips brushing his cheek. With a laugh, she punched his shoulder softly. "C'mon, Goody-goody! Lessgo!" The girl took a skipping step and dashed down the road. And the boy hurried after her.

"_Wait!" _screeched Helga. She ran after them, wincing as the winter wind struck her face. The road was level for more than a mile ahead, but the two children faded and disappeared. And Helga continued to run, screaming for them to stop—for them to wait for her. And the mile turned to miles. And her feet stung painfully; her shoes weren't designed for running. Thank god she hadn't worn heels.

* * *

The uneasiness had stalked them into the kitchen. Everyone nibbled at tree-shaped sugar cookies and made calm comments. 

Miriam looked so great. Her music was amazing. They had all missed her, so, so much.

Soon, there was nothing left to say; at least, nothing that wouldn't ruffle feathers.

Miriam looked up from a paper plate covered in crumbs. "What about He—..?"

Arnold cut her off there. "I really should get going. I promised I'd make Timberly a Christmas Eve dinner." He wiped crumbs from his pant leg and turned toward the door. "Good-bye, everyone… You can expect me over for Christmas… If that's still okay."

"Of course, Arnie! And thank you. So, so much," said Olga, who then gave a twiddle-fingered wave.

* * *

Helga finally couldn't run any more. They were gone, lost forever in whatever memory they had manifested from. Once Helga took a moment to look around, she realized where she was. Raider's Road. Home. 

The walk to her front door was slow, uncertain, frightening. But she made it, and she would open that door and she would—…

"OW-OOCH!" The door swung open, knocking her onto her back so that she laid sprawled over the steps. "Mn…. _God… ow…_Mmmm….mn!" There, standing above her, was the one person that fate always threw into her path. Her first love. Her first obsession. Her soulmate. Her destiny. He reached out for her.

(_You looked so dejected, so alone. I feared that the forest would have taken you, but there you were. You were crying._)

She would do anything for him. She would give up everything, if it meant that they could be together.

(_You'd found your parents, you'd done the impossible, and you wished you hadn't. You cried on my shoulder and your hair smelled amazing._)

All he had to do was flash that smile, say her name, and she would forget that Dorothy, Rob, and Alice ever existed. She would toss them into the closet. She would let them become skeletons, then dust, then nothing.

(_"Where do we go from here, Helga?"_)

She would follow him to hell and back, if it came to that.

(_"I love you…" It was all I wanted to hear. All I needed to hear._)

Because she loved him.

"Excuse me…? Are you alright?" But there was no recognition in his eyes, only that good-natured sparkle. He was such a goody-goody. Such a stupid goody-goody.

"Oh! I'm fine!" She grabbed his hand and let him pull her up. "I must have spaced out. You have _gorgeous_ eyes." She winked and laughed, but the sound was uncomfortable. And laughter can all too easily turn to tears if not controlled.

Arnold smirked. "I like your bow."

"Wh-wha—"

He gestured to her purse. "It's pink… and it doesn't match your outfit at all. I like it." He was too sweet, too adorable. It was ridiculous. And it hurt.

"Thanks." Helga stared at him, eyes pleading one last time for him to remember her. Did he even wonder why she was on the Patakis' stoop in the first place?

But Arnold had always been dense; he had always been blind. "Happy holidays," he said in a voice that, with its warmth, melted Helga's heart. And it was too cold out for melted things; they would only freeze.

So, she watched him go. He didn't leave in the direction of the boarding house. Maybe he had somewhere else to go, someone else to go to. Helga turned away from the blue house on Raider's Road and ran, hoping to escape the feeling that was creeping over her skin, threatening to sink in deeper.

* * *

_Sunset Arms Investigations, dedicated to reuniting families. _

"_We vie for miracles."_

_In memory of Phillip & Gertrude Mann_

_And For Miriam and Helga. _

_Come Home Soon._

The gold plaque was barely legible in the fading light. Helga ran a hand over the bricks of the boarding house, but they offered no comfort. She fell back against the door with a trembling sigh. Convulsions took over her body and she shook pitifully, fingernails rapping out a jagged beat on the door. But she would not cry. There was nothing to cry about.

There was nothing she could do, no way she could fix this. She had reached the end of the world.

And when you've reached the end of the world, there's only one place to go.

Home.

* * *

Alice was asleep against Rob when Dorothy finally returned home. The television was set to the news. "I come bearing gifts," she whispered, ignoring the mixture of concern and relief that had flooded her husband's face. 

Dorothy set the bags down and claimed the free side of the couch, snuggling against Rob's chest.

Rob wrapped an arm tightly, too tightly, around her and pointed to the television. "They've been playing this all evening. They found that missing Pataki woman. It turns out she was some semi-famous singer all along. How 'bout _that_?"

Dorothy didn't respond; her eyes were locked on the television screen, where a football-headed man was staring pleadingly at the cameras.

"_Miracles do happen. Please… come home, Helga… We're waiting for you._"

* * *

Arnold got home late that night. He stretched across his bed, eyes sweeping across his walls. Papers littered every bit of free space on those walls—thank you notes, pictures of smiling families, cards. His work was obviously appreciated. 

His mind shifted wearily to thoughts of poems and little pink books, of cruel jokes and the years without them.

His life was going well, but… he couldn't help but to wonder what Helga was doing at that moment.

* * *

The Christmas tree flashed and blinked, illuminating the linoleum of the kitchen floor shades of red and green. The liquid in the long-stemmed glass blinked similar colors, all with a gold undertone. 

Dorothy watched the glass blankly.

How many glasses had it taken to make Miriam forget her dreams? How many had it taken to keep her in Hillwood all those years? And how many more would it take for her to call that city home again?

Dorothy picked up a spoon and tapped it against the rim of the glass.

_Clink!_

* * *

_So we're alone again  
I wish it were over  
We seem to never end  
Only get closer to the point  
Where I cant take no more_

-- Joshua Radin, "_Closer_"

A/N: And, we're done… Not really the happiest ending, but oh well! It just wasn't a story that wanted to end happily. Also, I hope that you didn't mind me referring to the Imagination Helga Girl as just "the girl"

Random fun facts: Alice Liddell, the name of Helga's daughter, is also the name of the girl that inspired the Alice from Alice in Wonderland; Dorothy is wearing red shoes, trying to get home, and "the girl" mentions waiting for a scarecrow. Sound like the Wizard of Oz?; Brainy was in here. I tried to make it kind of obvious. And he recognized her!


End file.
